


flournoy

by mobysfunhouse



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Fugue, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Instability, Religious Fanaticism, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21512929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mobysfunhouse/pseuds/mobysfunhouse
Summary: daisy's calf is stillborn and missing the majority of its upper palate.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	flournoy

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to do little bits and pieces from clive's upbringing, just felt like rambling.
> 
> tw for childhood abuse, homophobia etc

June. He's 5, laying in bed flat on his back. The clapboard on the wall seems to wiggle and blur if he stares at it long enough. This is the first time he's ever been this sick, sweating and freezing all at the same time. The dizziness alone disorients him and forces him to squeeze his eyes shut, but it's the hallucinations that keep him awake. Clive tells Mama about them, the spinning and curling lines that weave in and out of each other before folding in on themselves. 

Mama pulls the duvet up to tuck it underneath his chin, calico skirt swishing silently like a ghost and tells him he needs to sleep, needs to rest so he can get better. They don't go to the doctor because prayer is so much more powerful, she explains. God's will doesn't always make sense but he's sick for a reason and God will heal him for a reason.

He can barely feel it when she touches his forehead with a gentle hand, testing his fever. Unresponsive as a spoonful of medicine slides down his throat like sticky crude oil, he's used to the taste now and doesn't retch. When she turns off the light there's a rush of panic as darkness suffocates the room and he wants to say something, wants her to come back but he's too sick and too exhausted to speak. Instead he squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the room to stop whirling around him but it never does.

Clive listens as her footsteps disappear down the hall and when he sleeps, he does not dream.

August. He's 8, standing in the barn. Daisy has been flat on her side all night and when she bellows in pain the sound rattles in Clive's chest. Moths swarm around the barn lamp as Daddy tries to sooth her, tries to get her to push. Clive is an obedient son, ready with a bucket of warm water and a rag. _“A fool despiseth his fathers instruction, but he that regardeth reproof is prudent.”_ He recalls the verse in his fathers low drawl as easy as he recalls the raised welts on the back of his thighs from the belt. 

Daisy's calf is stillborn and missing the majority of its upper palate. It slips out of her with a great gush of fluid and blood into the straw on the floor. This isn't the first time he's helped with dropping a calf and Clive knows something is wrong when the baby doesn't move, doesn't twitch with the first signs of newborn life. Hay sticks to the wet fur plastered down slick and shiny to the newborn and it lies completely still like a stuffed animal, limp and dead in a little pile. 

Daddy yanks off his big gloves and runs a hand through his grey-blonde hair, staring at the stillborn, staring at its deformed face that twists and deviates up and around the nostrils in a bloom of pink flesh and a few incisors. “Give me the bucket.” He sounds defeated. Clive can barely hear him, he's too busy staring at the milky eye that in return stares back at him, beyond him, lost in the afterlife. It's not until Daddy is shouting at him does he move, setting the bucket down beside his father. “Yes sir.” 

Not once does he look away from the calf, still covered in crumpled and lifeless on the floor.

January. He's 10, sitting on the edge of a hardwood pew. His bible is open on his lap and he looks at the words, but he does not read. Daddy is behind the pulpit in his best cream-colored suit, a single hand gesturing wildly. He says something about fire and a golden calf and Clive's mind wanders through a dark tabernacle. Clive knows all about fire, brain cooked by fever, boiled with dreams of not a golden calf, but a little black one on the floor of the barn. _“Whereupon the king took counsel, and made two calves of gold, and said unto them, It is too much for you to go up to Jerusalem: behold thy gods, O Israel, which brought thee up out of the land of Egypt.”_ The bible slips from his lap and tumbles to the ground with a noisy thud but he can't move to pick it up and Daddy glares at him from his spot at the pulpit. 

He's slapped when they get back home, standing quietly out on the porch.

June. He's 12 and standing waist-deep in Flournoy lake. Daddy is beside him, the water doesn't come up quite as high as him and Clive wishes he could be as tall and strong as him. The church elders are there and the rest of the congregation are too, all peering at him from the shoreline. A bug skims across the water, leaving behind little ripples in its wake. Clive stares at his reflection as it bobs and distorts like blotted stained glass, the sunlight dappling and burning little spots into his eyes from the water's surface. 

“-One Lord, one faith, one baptism,” Clive hasn't noticed Daddy talking, it's hot and the water that laps at the hem of his white shirt feels cool, sleepy. “One God and Father of all, who is above all,” He takes Clive by the shoulder and the boy braces himself, the feeling of fear like rushing up to the ledge of a dock before jumping yawns inside of him. “And through all, and in you all.” He's submerged without warning and water engulfs his senses, rushes through his nose, floods his throat throat and he seizes instinctually, gripping Daddy's forearm. 

When he's brought up out of the water, the congregation is applauding from their spot on the land and he coughs uncontrollably. His hair is plastered down to his scalp and forehead and he peers up with blurry, burning eyes at Daddy. He's looking back down at him, emotionless before resting a hand on his shoulder. Finally, he moves to make his way back to land and Clive scrambles after him, suddenly desperate to get out of the water.

March. He's 13, paused at the top of the stairs. He's getting tall now, forehead coming just up underneath Mama's nose. He strains to hear the angry hush of voices downstairs, frozen in place as he debates whether or not to descend. Through bits and pieces he knows they're talking about children, specifically how hard they've been trying. Clive's always wanted a sister but whenever he's asked, Daddy always gets angry. Something is slammed against the kitchen counter and the boy jumps, startled. _“For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the savior of the body.”_

He tiptoes back to his room like the floor is altar coals and shuts the door behind him. Softly toying with the paw of a plush rabbit, he stares into the dark of his room until his vision fizzes and dances like radio static.

July. He's 15, helping Daddy with the chairs. The other families in the church are so much bigger than their own and he can tell Daddy is ashamed of it. He's ashamed of Mama and Clive knows it's because of her barrenness but he's angry at Clive and that's something he still can't quite figure out. This is when he has his first episode, unresponsive and stiff at the kitchen table. Mama tries to get him to respond as he lays in bed stock-still like a wax sculpture, a bronze statue but her voice its so distant, so far away like he's submerged in warm water rushing around his head. The elders from the church come that night and they pray for him, hands placed on his skull as they murmur their prayers, speaking in tongues, squeezing. Just like his fevers as a young child, there are no doctors to be called. Daddy says this isn't a sickness of the flesh, but a baptism by fire. 

_“Then a spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up: It stood still, but I could not discern the form therof: an image was before mine eyes, there was a silence, and I heard a voice, saying, Shall mortal man be more just than God? Shall a man be more pure than his maker?”_

When he wakes up, Daddy is at foot of his bed, knelt and bent in anguish and prayer. Clive doesn't know if he's mourning his 'possession' or if he's mourning his entire existence, he might figure it out if his eyes weren't rolling back into his head and sealing shut. 

Sunday morning there is more praying, more laying of hands, more strange tongues. They rejoice in having thrown out the demon and lift their hands in prayer, in reverence. Prayer, all powerful, triumphed yet again, rejoice brothers and sisters and see what the Lord has done. But Clive doesn't feel like anything is different – it feels like he's still not quite awake, his head not quite out of the water. It's a secret he keeps to himself, he doesn't even tell Mama. He knows why Daddy's angry at him now, angry at the only child he's reared being sick, being plagued by spirits. Clive dreams that night of Daisy's stillborn but this time, it's gold and it's pink skin is visible through the slick fur. It shivers in a pile on the floor, black eye like a marble rolling in the wet hay.

December. He's 19, standing in the kitchen doorway in his best button-down, starched and stiff, the same cornflower blue they buried Mama in. She's always liked him in blue, said it brought out his eyes. Daddy's spun on whiskey and he slaps him when he admits he doesn't want to court Mr. Kelly's daughter. Daddy says he's going to whether he likes her or not. Mr. Kelly is a very important man and a close friend of his and you better be nice to that girl or else he's gonna hem you up, gonna make sure you understand.

“Or is it you just ain't interested in girls? You like boys instead? You want to suck cock instead? Did I raise a fag?” Clive's eyes are wet but he tells himself it's only out of regret for disobeying his father. “No sir.” His voice cracks and he hates how pathetic he sounds. _“There shall be no whore of the daughters of Israel, nor a sodomite of the sons of Israel. ”_ Daddy sends him away. 

When Clive finally lays down he presses his burning face into the pillow and keens. 

April. He's 19, standing in a charred, open field just outside of town. The police told them they still don't know how it happened. It's rained over the weekend so the remnants of the church tent are squishy and soaked, all turned to tar-black coal and sinking slowly into the mud. A freak accident, still working out the details, still don't understand how this could have happened, we're so sorry. He doesn't know why he wanted to come out here and see it, and he doesn't know what to do now that he's seen the wreckage. Mr. Kelly was nice enough to give him a job now, down at the plant. He says it'll help him keep the house that Daddy's left for him and Clive promises he'll do his best. _“The crucible is for silver, and the furnace is for gold, but the Lord trieth the hearts.”_

Daddy's urn doesn't go next to Mama's photo on the mantle. Instead, Clive brings it into the front yard next to the old swing and tosses it down into the empty well. It splinters when it bounces off the side of it and by the time it reaches the bottom, Clive can still see the glimmering of the many shards like animal eyes at night.

September. He's 25, pulling his work bag out of the locker. Kent gives him a pat on the back on his way out and Clive flushes pink, pretending to be too occupied with a zipper to mumble more than a “g'night.” It's quiet on the ride home and if it weren't for the setting sun blazing in his eyes, he would be struggling to stay awake. He likes Kent. Kent is the new guy and he's almost as tall as him with the greenest eyes and the reddest hair Clive's ever seen. He understands what he feels and it makes him scared. It's dark when he gets home and before he can even get his boots off, there's a voice that lilts up the stairs. _'Come up here. What have you done?'_ His palms are sweaty and he shakes but obeys. _“As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten: be zealous therefore, and repent.”_

Not all of the welts bleed, but some of them seep like an open burn and when Clive wakes in the morning, the sheets stick to him in more than one place. 

October. He doesn't know how old he is now, standing in his basement with the light of the dim bulb bouncing off of his shoulders. Reverend Quinn is splayed on the floor in front of him like some kind of insect and Clive shivers with excitement, with righteousness. He's tingling all over, palms sweating as his bare chest rises and falls nervously. “Hey.” He drops down beside the other man and shoves his shoulder. “Wake up.” Clive doesn't wait for him to orient himself, simply smiles calmly when he sees his eyes open. He tries his best to hold back a little slip of laughter when Quinn realizes that he can't move his hand because the bones in his left hand have been shattered by a hammer.

“Have you ever heard of King Manasseh?” He watches the confusion flicker across Quinn's face, watches him realize that he's not safe in the church, he's in a basement under layers of soft soil. Clive pauses to let him answer and eventually, Quinn shakes his head. “He built up shrines to Baal… ” He runs his big hand through the reverend's hair and grips a fistful of dark curls, shaking his skull. 

“Now can you believe that? King of Judah, the right hand of God...” Clive gets closer, to the point where Quinn flinches back against the dirty floor. “Betraying him for witchcraft… Idolatry…” The reverend's eyes widen behind his cracked glasses and Clive knows he's caught him. He knows that he knows. 

“Who the fuck are you?” Quinn sounds scared despite his attempts to sound angry and brave and it makes Clive giddy. He's so skinny and frail-looking, his wrists bony and so much smaller than his own. “He sacrificed his own sons to Moloch.” A big hand abandons the reverend's wrist and splays across his chest to toy with his crucifix. “He turned against God, so God gave him to the Babylonians.” Clive straddles him to get even closer, wriggles his hips across his until settling just below his stomach. “They dragged him allllll the way back to Babylon with a hook in his nose.” He accentuates the 'all' by walking his fingers up Quinn's chest, pausing just beneath his septum. 

With surprising gentleness, he grips Quinn's nose between thumb and forefinger, shaking him a little. “Should I put a ring in _your_ nose?” Clive asks in a whisper and tugs on him while nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Quinn's breath trembles and he can feel the smaller man shake underneath him and when Clive draws his tongue from the narrow muscle on his neck up to his temple, he reels in terror. When Clive pulls back to admire his own work, he smiles genuine and warm. His pupils are blown black and wide like an empty well, empty with their excitement, empty with something beyond his own comprehension, empty, empty, empty.

November. He's got his hands around the reverend's neck, so thin before but even more fragile now, covered in yellowing bruises. Clive likes him best like this, when he's on his back on the dirty mattress, bony hands scraping for purchase against Clive's broad back. He likes the squeeze around his cock, the choking sounds Quinn makes the harder he crushes his throat or the harder he bites. He likes the sound he makes when Clive breaks one of his teeth, snaps it clean out of his skull with a flathead and a wood mallet. He likes just how easy it was to blind him, big thumb squishing into the socket and feeling around for whatever might be there. He likes his lips, how he kisses him back like he's done it before and it makes him seethe with hate and revulsion and lust from it all at once. 

Clive feels some sort of rush from all of it, a giddy sense of rebellion at fucking another man. When he's filled the reverend with cum and lays beside him petting down his bony spine, he can hear the voice upstairs, he can feel the sting of decades gone past across his back and across his face. He revels in the feeling.

He kisses Quinn's sweaty neck with fragility and feels like this must be how God loves him.

November. He's at the foot of the stairs and it's dark. Not entirely flat on his back, sort of half on his side, his spine twisted as the majority of his weight rests on his shoulder blades and neck. He can't hear out of one of his ears and there's something wet and warm underneath his skull and when he breathes there's a rattling sound that reminds him of an illness he had as a child. Clive wants to wipe the blood off his lips and chin but he can't move, frozen and stuck as he sinks lower and lower into catatonia, sinking back to the bottom of Flournoy, sinking back to the straw-covered floor of a barn where he lies covered in blood, membrane, amniotic fluid. There's someone at the top of the stairs but he can't quite seem to focus his eyes on them. A wave of love spreads through him and he closes his eyes and smiles.

This time when he sleeps, he dreams of a great golden aurochs with arching horns. A pyre is built underneath its powerful body, the fire illuminating it from where it burns below it. His gaze travels up the powerful legs of the bull and to its face, split and mangled like a fern, milky eyes staring back at him like lamps hung in a barn across the field at night.


End file.
